Mortal Man
by DadMom AngryPants
Summary: SpongeBob never thought that his hero would die, but beneath the super powers and fancy costumes was a mortal, old man. In memory of Ernest Borgnine, aka Mermaid Man, 1917-2012.
1. Chapter 1

Shady Shoes Rest Home was never particularly busy even on Sundays. Weekends always had a bigger _potential_ visitor count but very rarely did the visitor count ever actually live up to this potential. Frank, the receptionist, saw it time and time again; a new resident would move in and for the first few months the family would visit and make a great deal out of bringing flowers or taking their elderly relative for a stroll. Then, after endless games of checkers and the smell of stale urine began to take their toll, their enthusiasm would start to wane, resulting either in a stop to the visits altogether or, perhaps worse, visits which clearly inconvenienced them. They made little attempt to hide the way they sighed in resignation as they entered the building, or glanced unconvincingly at an imaginary watch before proclaiming that it really was quite late and they just had to get to the supermarket or the dentist or pick up the kids from an equally imaginary birthday party.

That's what made SpongeBob SquarePants such an unusual visitor.

Today, like every Sunday, he marched up to the reception desk, grinning profusely, a stack of well-read Mermaid Man comic books tucked under one arm, the other fluttering excitedly at his side. The comic books had been autographed so many times that it was a wonder he was still able to decipher anything beneath the increasingly illegible signatures that covered every page. Frank suspected that he knew every one by heart anyway, if his ability to recite entire episodes on demand was anything to go by. It wasn't too much of a stretch to assume that this ability extended to the medium of comic books. Even when he reached the counter he couldn't stand still and began to bounce on the balls of his feet. His joy was infectious and at first Frank couldn't help but grin himself. But then, with a sickening jolt, he realized why SpongeBob was here and his smile faltered. Hadn't anybody told him?

"Hey, Frank!" chirped SpongeBob, reciting the same greeting he had given every Sunday for the past … however many years it was. Frank had lost track. "I'm here to see Mermaid Man."

The latter part of the greeting had been redundant for a long time, since SpongeBob always came to see Mermaid Man and everybody knew it, but they humored him anyway. He seemed to enjoy saying it.

"Listen, kid," Frank cleared his throat and shifted in his chair uncomfortably, wondering how best to proceed. Experience told him to be blunt, to come right out with it and state the facts, but a pang of guilt and the prospect of shattering the poor kid's heart into a million pieces caused him to hesitate. It was like trying to decide between punching him in the face or nipping him repeatedly. Neither option was appealing. Clearly failing to perceive the change in tone and Frank's internal struggle, SpongeBob continued to bounce excitedly.

"We're going to re-enact the Sinister Slug story arc from issues #132 through #147. Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy are going to play Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy and I'm going to be the Sinister Slug. I've been practising every night this week. Watch!" he dropped to the floor, comic books spilling across the hallway as his arms snapped rigidly to his sides, and began to flop in what was presumably supposed to be an imitation of a slug but in reality looked like some kind of seizure. A startled orderly popped her head out of the office.

"Hey, kid?" started Frank, "Are you listening to me?" The continued (and now somewhat irritating) slug seizure indicated not, so he raised his voice. "SpongeBob!"

"Mm?" SpongeBob straightened up, suddenly all ears.

"Listen", said Frank again, though it was more a stall for time than a command now, as he already had SpongeBob's undivided attention. Big blue eyes gazed at him unblinkingly, perhaps expecting one of his many anecdotes about working in the rest home, or a joke, or even just the usual reminder not to wake any sleeping seniors on his way to the rec room. Certainly not what Frank was, eventually, going to have to tell him. "Mermaid Man … he, uh, checked out last night."

"Oh," SpongeBob blinked, then plopped down into one of three chairs that lined the hallway opposite the reception desk, scooped one of his comic books off the floor and begin to flick through. "That's OK. I'll wait for him to get back."

"No, kid," groaned Frank, almost immediately regretting his decision to go down the euphemism path but determined to stick it out anyway, "I mean he's gone to a better place."

"Rococo Reef Rest Home?"

On any other day, Frank would have chuckled indulgently, enjoying SpongeBob's trademark misunderstandings and making a mental note of the conversation to share with the guys in the staff room later. Today, however, was not the day for such misunderstandings, charming or otherwise. Frank exhaled in frustration, leaning forward onto his fins and rubbing his temples. "Neptune give me strength ..."

For SpongeBob, it seemed, the penny was finally starting to drop. He approached the counter again, for the first time a fleeting look of uncertainty in his eyes, though he was still half smiling. "Frank?"

"Mermaid Man is dead."

For three long seconds, SpongeBob didn't say anything. Frank couldn't bring himself to look at the boy and instead fixed his gaze on a nearby stack of papers. Out of the corner of his eye he saw SpongeBob's fingers, which had already been gripping the edge of the counter, clench slightly. When SpongeBob finally spoke, his voice was taut with panic and although he was clearly fighting to stay calm his question was riddled with desperation. "Is that some kind of metaphor?"

"For crying out loud, kid!" barked Frank, "Do you have to make this so difficult?" Again, SpongeBob was silent, knuckles now white from gripping the counter so hard, and a surge of hot guilt turned Frank's stomach. He decided to start over. "Mermaid Man was very old. Do you understand?"

SpongeBob suddenly released the counter from his vice-like grip and took a step backwards, swallowing and swinging his arms as though he wasn't quite sure what to do with them any more. "Well," he squeaked, voice now unnaturally high even for him, "It's been nice talking to you, but I really have to be going now. I've got to pick up the dentist from a birthday party." He turned and began to walk away, evidently trying to keep his composure, though the effect was ruined a little as, upon reaching the exit, he broke into a run, stumbling slightly over the threshold and taking a huge, sobbing breath before disappearing altogether, comic books forgotten and still scattered across the tiled hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

SpongeBob cried over a lot of things, often, and for far too long. He knew it, but he couldn't help it. He had never quite mastered the art of filtering his emotions, or working out which ones should be expressed and which ones were supposed to quelled and stored up inside until a more appropriate time. Like a visit to the shrink or a dyspeptic family reunion.

It wasn't just tears that came so easily; joy, too, was impossible for him to contain. Much to the annoyance of the general populous of Bikini Bottom, laughter bubbled easily from his lips, shaking his entire body until he could barely stand and was reduced to flopping around on the floor in a lengthy fit of giggles.

What he wouldn't give for a lengthy fit of giggles right now.

He had finally cried himself out; he didn't know how long it had been, but the underwater sun was almost set, casting long, rippling shadows over the living room floor where he lay on his back, exhausted and hiccuping slightly, face still wet with tears. They had pooled uncomfortably in his pores; he pushed himself into a sitting position, shaking his head like a wet worm and consequently showering everything within a 7 foot radius with salty droplets.

Usually he would feel better by now, either because enough time had passed that whatever situation that had upset him in the first place had righted itself, or because it didn't seem so important any more, or because somebody had said something to make him feel better. But none of those things applied today. His hero was still dead and still very important, and it still hurt to think about. It was a different kind of hurt, too. Rather than the quick bursts of roll-around-on-the-floor-sobbing-for-a-while-but-better-pretty-soon kind of sadness that he frequently dealt with, this sadness still lingered, a persistent dull ache in his chest. His breath was still ragged; he closed his eyes and pressed them into the palms of his hands, taking a large gulp of air and holding it in an attempt to steady himself.

"Meow?" Gary, SpongeBob's pet sea snail, was watching his master warily from the kitchen. He was so used to SpongeBob's episodes by now that he knew to stay well away until the worst was over lest he be doused in a river of tears or suffer permanent ear trauma. Not that snails had ears. But that was beside the point.

"Oh," SpongeBob clambered to his feet, glancing guiltily at the clock, which chimed 9pm. "I still haven't fed you, huh?" A little unsteady and disoriented, he staggered into the kitchen, groping at the wall for the light switch, and flicked it on, wincing slightly at the sudden brightness. He reached down to pet Gary, who purred affectionately. "Sorry, Gare-bear."

"Meow?"

SpongeBob mulled the question as he poured a generous helping of kibble into Gary's food bowl. He couldn't bring himself to say "It's nothing", because it wasn't nothing. But for once he didn't feel like discussing what troubled him, so left the question hanging and instead just sank to the kitchen floor to watch Gary eat, knees pulled up to his chest. He wasn't hungry himself. The thought of food made him feel queasy.

By the time Gary took his last bite of kibble it was approaching 9:30pm and SpongeBob was so exhausted that he briefly entertained the possibility of simply crawling into bed and hoping that sleep would overcome him, but the more realistic prospect of lying awake for hours ruminating over the day's events did not appeal to him. Maybe he could watch television to distract himself? Read a book? Then he realized with a pang that in his haste to leave the rest home he had forgotten his prized collection of signed Mermaid Man comic books.

Gary, who would normally have curled up and gone to sleep himself by now, seemed to sense that his owner needed company and for that SpongeBob was extremely grateful. He was less grateful when Gary slithered behind him, grabbed a mouthful of his shirt and began to pull. At first SpongeBob struggled but then decided it wasn't worth using what little energy he had left and allowed himself to be dragged backwards into the living room.

When they reached the sofa, Gary let go and stared intently, almost sternly, at SpongeBob, who took the hint and rolled the last few inches onto the sofa, sighing with relief as he sank face-first into the soft material. It was certainly more comfortable than the kitchen floor.


	3. Chapter 3

When he looked at the morning in hindsight, Mr. Krabs, owner and proprietor of Bikini Bottom's favorite fast food eatery (aptly named the "Krusty Krab"), should perhaps have suspected that something was amiss with his fry cook.

The first sign was the boy's absence when, bright and early on a crisp Monday morning, he arrived to unlock the front doors and begin another fruitful day of pushing patties. SpongeBob wasn't technically late; it was only 7:30am and employees were not required on site until 9:00am. But usually it was all Mr. Krabs could do to keep SpongeBob away. He had to pry him from the grill, often literally, at the end of each work day, and it was very rare that he didn't arrive in the morning to see the boy already pressed eagerly against the glass of the double front doors, aching to get inside and fulfil his duties. Today, however, SpongeBob was nowhere to be found, although there was still a pair of smudged little hand prints on the doors from earlier in the week. As he unlocked the door, Mr. Krabs made a mental note to get one of his employees to clean it later. SpongeBob would probably jump at the chance … if he ever turned up.

It was two minutes past nine when SpongeBob finally burst into the restaurant, breathless and holding a stitch in his side, and Mr. Krabs was ready to scold him for his tardiness but took pity upon seeing the dark circles under his eyes and uncharacteristically crooked uniform hat. He had clearly had a rough night. That was the second sign.

"I'm sorry – Mr. Krabs -" wheezed SpongeBob, straightening his hat and brushing ineffectually at his clothes in an attempt to make himself look more presentable.

"Where have you been, lad? It's not like you to cut it so fine." Mr. Krabs wrapped a claw around SpongeBob's back and steered him toward to the kitchen in order to speed up the proceedings and make up for lost time. Then a thought occurred to him and he stopped, grasped SpongeBob by the shoulders and surveyed his pale complexion and slightly bloodshot eyes with a look of suspicion. "You're not sick are you, boy? You know you're not supposed come to work with a disease."

"I'm not sick, Mr. Krabs." said SpongeBob, shuffling his feet and seemingly eager for his boss to release him from his grip and let him get to work. "I just … it's a long story."

He clearly thought that this would bring an end to the conversation, but Mr. Krabs' curiosity was now well and truly piqued. He cocked an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

SpongeBob blinked. "I, uh …" He looked away nervously, almost as if he were ashamed, his gaze coming to rest on his shiny, black shoes. "Stopped to tie my shoe?" He looked up at Mr. Krabs again, blushing furiously. He was a terrible liar.

Every passing minute eating into service time and therefore his profits, Mr. Krabs made an executive decision to drop the matter. "All right, boyo," he sighed, giving SpongeBob another little shove toward the kitchen. "Just don't let it happen again."

"Aye aye, sir!"

As the day progressed, Mr. Krabs was relieved to see SpongeBob gradually return to his usual, bubbly self. Or, more accurately, hear him return to his usual, bubbly self. From his office where he sat alternating between serious number crunching and sorting crisp dollar bills into neat little piles (this latter task didn't really serve any purpose; he just enjoyed doing it), he was able to hear SpongeBob's sporadic giggling and snippets of warbling, tuneless ditties that he made up on the spot to express his happiness about a specific part of food service that he was particularly enjoying at that moment in time.

By way of accompaniment, Squidward punctuated the fry cook's largely meaningless outbursts with outbursts of his own. Conversely, they were nearly always irritable and snarky.

"Will you stop that incessant babbling?" he snapped, "And why haven't you taken that order out to table five yet?"

SpongeBob's chipper voice was audible from everywhere in the restaurant as he kicked the kitchen door open with a bang. "Order up!"

Mr. Krabs wasn't able to make out anything further as SpongeBob's banter with the customers became lost in a sea of other voices that filled the dining room. Perhaps ten seconds went by before SpongeBob's voice suddenly became distinguishable again – in the form of a deafening, high-pitched wail.

Mr. Krabs gave a little wail himself as, in surprise, he accidentally snipped the bill he was holding in his right claw clean in two. He sighed and got up to check the situation in the main restaurant. Poking his head around the office door, he was met with an unfortunately familiar scene. SpongeBob was crying like a fire hydrant, the customers looked mildly startled and Squidward was being Squidward.

"What?" smirked the cephalopod, "Wrong sized drink? Hah!"

Mr. Krabs, suspecting that this meltdown had little to do with food service, dealt with it using considerably more tact than Squidward and ten minutes later, sitting in one of the two chairs opposite his boss's desk, SpongeBob was finally ready to talk.

"Mr. Krabs," he began, swinging his legs and scuffing his feet on the ground nervously, "I have a confession to make. I … wasn't late to work this morning because I stopped to tie my shoe."

With an incredible amount of effort, Mr. Krabs resisted rolling his eyes. "I never really bought that in the first place, lad."

"Oh."

Mr. Krabs waited patiently for an elaboration, a part two to the confession, but none came. SpongeBob was staring at his hands, apparently lost in thought.

"So what's the matter with you today? What was all that about?" He gestured towards the dining room. He noted, for the second time that day, SpongeBob's pallid appearance and his earlier suspicion reared its head. "There's no shame in being sick, boy. It happens to the best of us. Do you need a ride home?"

"I'm not sick, sir, I swear." He paused again. This time, Mr. Krabs didn't break the silence. Instead, he waited, forcing SpongeBob to eventually raise his eyes from his lap and continue the conversation. "Well … it's just, there was a customer out there with a newspaper."

"A newspaper," Mr. Krabs repeated, hoping that it would make more sense if he said it himself. It didn't. "Help me out here, lad. Why did a customer with a newspaper make you cry? Do you have a newspaper phobia? A newsprint allergy?"

"Mermaid Man was on the front page. Because he died."

Suddenly, everything fell into place. Mermaid Man needed no introduction; he (and his sidekick, Barnacle Boy) had been a regular at the Krusty Krab for many years, and SpongeBob doted on him. Publicly. Unashamedly. And often to the annoyance of everybody in the vicinity, including the weary superhero himself. Seeing SpongeBob so heartbroken over the death of a friend made an unpleasant change from seeing him heartbroken over a burned patty or missing name tag.

"Why didn't you just say so, boy?" said Mr. Krabs, shaking his head. "You shouldn't have come into work today."

SpongeBob seemed surprised, bordering on offended. "Why not?"

"Well. When something like this happens, you're allowed to take personal time off. By law." Mr. Krabs wasn't usually a believer in time off, let alone an advocate, but there were certain exceptions, and this was one of them.

"Why would I want to take time off?" asked SpongeBob, still puzzled. "I stayed home for hours yesterday and it was terrible. And didn't you once tell me that any problem I have can be solved with a little hard work?"

"Er … yes, I did," admitted Mr. Krabs, too ashamed to add that he had only said it in order to make the gullible fry cook work harder and not because he thought there was any truth to it.

"I did feel better to begin with," mumbled SpongeBob, dropping his gaze to his lap again, "But it didn't really work this time because I still feel bad."

"This is one of those problems that can't be solved by flipping patties, boy."

SpongeBob looked so deflated at this revelation (literally: the usually angular corners of his head sagged dejectedly) that Mr. Krabs immediately felt guilty and cast around for a motivational pep talk or comforting anecdote. It was difficult. Normally, SpongeBob's problems were easily solvable as they were considered trivial by most sane people, but this time Mr. Krabs was struggling to think of anything to say. Grief was grief, and SpongeBob was quite right to feel it.

Finally, he was struck with an idea.

"So how is Barnacle Boy taking it?"

"Barnacle Boy?" repeated SpongeBob, sitting up a little straighter and shifting slightly. "I don't know. I guess I hadn't really thought about that."

"Maybe you should pay him a visit."

Although SpongeBob didn't turn down the suggestion, he seemed wary. Knowing him well, Mr. Krabs suspected that the boy was torn between the desire to see and possibly help his other hero, and the fear of returning to the place that now had such a negative memory attached to it. Also knowing that the only way to deal with that fear was to face it head on, whether SpongeBob wanted to or not, Mr. Krabs decided that it was time for some tough love.

"Go or you're fired."


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm ready."

Although he hadn't technically done anything wrong, Squidward felt like a huge jerk. Well. Maybe it was wrong. But he hadn't technically done anything different; he sneered at SpongeBob all the time. In fact, it was almost routine for them.

"I'm ready."

And he hadn't technically caused SpongeBob to cry. He'd just made a joke about it, like any other day, not knowing what had happened the day before, or the effect that it had had on SpongeBob, and just assuming (not unreasonably) that his usually predictable co-worker was having a standard patty-related crisis.

"I'm ready."

In order to suppress his guilt, he internally pinned the blame on SpongeBob.

"I'm ready."

How was anybody supposed to differentiate legitimate grief from the trauma of an incorrect portion size when the sponge expressed both in exactly the same way?

"I'm ready."

It was unfair. An unrealistic expectation. But nevertheless, his karma was damaged and so, in an attempt to reduce the level of karmic payback he was sure to receive at a later date, he had reluctantly agreed to accompany SpongeBob to some smelly rest home.

"I'm ready."

Also, Mr. Krabs had threatened to fire him if he didn't.

"I'm ready."

SpongeBob, apparently, was ready. Squidward welcomed his readiness; so far it had made this escort mission a whole lot easier than he had been expecting it to be.

"..."

Squidward had walked halfway up the home's planked pathway before he realized that SpongeBob had stopped chanting his trademark mantra and was no longer by his side. He whipped around, scanning the vicinity for SpongeBob's distinct bright yellow, and spotted him standing all the way back at the beginning of the path, toes flush against the first plank but unwilling to step on it.

"Get a move on, SpongeBob!" called Squidward, frowning and tapping a tentacle impatiently. SpongeBob didn't get a move on. Squidward tensed his shoulders irritably and retraced his steps back to where SpongeBob was stood rooted to the spot.

"You said you were ready. 47 times." Still receiving no evidence that anybody was home behind those wide, glazed-over eyes, Squidward gave the sponge a forceful nudge, hoping this would prompt him to get the anchor out of his square pants and start walking. It didn't. "All right. Whatever. I was hoping I wouldn't have to use this but you leave me no choice."

He rummaged underneath his shirt until he found what he was looking for – a smooth, silicone handle. He gripped it and pulled, revealing a familiar stainless steel spatula that he had brought along in case a situation like this were to arise, and slowly swung it into SpongeBob's field of vision. This was a trick that Mr. Krabs had taught him and, judging by the way SpongeBob's eyes immediately lit up and locked onto the metal glinting in the underwater sunlight, was about to serve him well. The fry cook sprang to life, tracking the spatula with now attentive eyes as Squidward flicked it up and down, his face cracking instinctively into a wide, toothy grin.

Given the lightness of the kitchen utensil, a single powerful pitch was enough to send it arcing through the water, straight through the open doors of the rest home, leaving a blazing trail of bubbles and its owner bounding after it in a joyful frenzy.

Squidward followed behind, recoiling slightly as he stepped into the rest home and was greeted by a stale waft of eau de octogenarian. He blinked several times to help his eyes adjust to the cool dimness of the reception area. SpongeBob stood a few feet away, the spatula held loosely in his left hand, the fleeting and fickle moment of joy evaporated as quickly as it had come. He turned to look at Squidward, fearful and almost pleadingly, then opened and closed his mouth several times before fight-or-flight took over and he made a break for the exit.

"Did I tell you that I have to pick up the dentist from a birthday party?"

"Stop it, SpongeBob!" snapped Squidward, grabbing him by the back of the shirt. "I didn't come all this way for you to back out now!"

"I can't do it, Squidward," said SpongeBob miserably, though he stopped struggling, the temporary surge of energy once again leaving him like a deflated balloon. "Please … let's just go back to the Krusty Krab. It's lunch time, Mr. Krabs is probably-"

"In case you forgot," interrupted Squidward, releasing SpongeBob from his grip and causing him to fall face-first onto the floor with a squeak, "It was Krabs who ordered you to come here in the first place."

"Mmphmmrmm," said SpongeBob. Squidward used his foot to flip the uncooperative sponge right side up. He was beginning to find SpongeBob's despondent behaviour unsettling. As much of a pain in the neck SpongeBob usually was, his blind optimism and overzealousness was infinitely more preferable to the Squidward 2.0 that lay listlessly before him.

"So what are you going to do? Just never come back here again? Never make friends with another person over fifty?" Squidward snatched back the spatula. "Don't make me throw this again. My aim is terrible and somebody might end up with a serious spatula injury. You wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?"

"OK, OK, I'm going!"

True to his word, SpongeBob straightened up and approached the reception desk, the squeak of his shoes reverberating throughout the hallway with every step he took. The fish manning the desk looked up from his paperwork. He looked surprised to see SpongeBob and a little apprehensive.

"Hey, Frank," said SpongeBob. So far so good.

"Hey, kid," he replied, relaxing into a friendly smile, "You doing OK?"

SpongeBob nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Squidward narrowed his eyes and glanced suspiciously at SpongeBob. Either this was the blind optimism speaking or SpongeBob had finally learned how to lie convincingly.

"Well, it's nice to see you again. And Mr. …?" He glanced at Squidward quizzically.

"Oh, yeah," said SpongeBob, wrapping an arm around Squidward and drawing him close, "This is my friend-"

"No."

"Buddy-"

"No."

"Accomplice."

"Unless I've been robbing banks with you in my sleep I don't think you understand the meaning of that word."

"Acquaintance?"

"Let go, SpongeBob, you're crushing my ribs!" gasped Squidward.

"This is my acquaintance, Squidward," finished SpongeBob. Squidward detached himself from the uninvited embrace and massaged his ribcage resentfully.

Frank watched this exchange with a look of bemusement on his face, then seemed to remember something and ducked underneath the counter. "You came for these, right?" He dumped a heavy stack of "Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy" comic books on the desk.

"My collection! Thanks!" SpongeBob dragged them closer, thumbing eagerly through the top one. He lingered on the center page, a pull-out poster which depicted the younger of the two titular heroes. "But actually … I'm here to see Barnacle Boy."


	5. Chapter 5

This was where SpongeBob had first met Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy in the flesh, after years of fawning over the long-running Saturday morning television show and extensive library of comic books. This couch, facing this television, which was currently muted and tuned to a mind-numbingly boring show in which mind-numbingly boring people bought mind-numbingly boring antique anchor chains and talked about them extensively. At least, SpongeBob assumed they were talking. They could just have been opening and closing their mouths silently for all he knew. He doubted it would make much difference to his enjoyment of the show either way. Antique anchor chains weren't really his thing.

SpongeBob was perched on what he still considered to be Mermaid Man's side of the couch. Barnacle Boy sat next to him in his usual place, one elbow propped on the arm rest, his head leaning wearily into his hand. The atmosphere was tense and almost oppressive; the hushed silence accentuated every cough, shuffle and newspaper rustle. SpongeBob forced himself to sit upright, fearing that if he sank into the seat too much the overwhelming sense of apathy would overcome him and he'd become permanently reticent or disappear altogether.

In short, Shady Shoals actually felt like a rest home today. He felt uncomfortably bright and garish, offensively yellow in a sea of subdued gray.

Usually SpongeBob's visits were a flurry of excitement, an afternoon of action and adventure, of total immersion in the world of his heroes. Even on quiet days there was an endless supply of rambling stories to be told, which he would happily listen to for hours, sat cross-legged and doe-eyed at the slippered or flippered feet of Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy respectively, hanging on to their every word. This latter activity wasn't restricted to superhero-themed tales from Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy; the rest home was a goldmine of people with years of life experience and therefore years of interesting stories to tell.

Although it had been difficult getting here, now that he was in the presence of at least one of his heroes SpongeBob's instinct was to dive right into his usual routine, show everybody his perfected Sinister Slug impression, crack a few jokes and just generally try to lighten the mood, but today he repressed these urges as a mark of respect. It wasn't easy. To see Barnacle Boy in particular looking so tired and miserable (even more so than usual) was nothing short of torture.

As a kind of compromise, a halfway point between rigor mortis and leaping around on the tabletops in a home-made napkin cape and necktie mask, SpongeBob turned to Barnacle Boy and broke the silence. "Can I ask you something?"

Barnacle Boy sighed resignedly. "Fire away."

"Well." SpongeBob pulled his feet up onto the couch, crossed his legs and swivelled 90 degrees to the left so that his attention was fully on Barnacle Boy. This act alone seemed to startle the aged superhero, whose eyes left the television for the first time that day in order to gaze quizzically at SpongeBob. "You know how, on the show, you hunt down the bad guys and protect Bikini Bottom from their evil villain ways? But you also do that in real life, right? I know because I hang out with you a lot. I even helped you a few times. But I've never seen a cameraman. So how how do the producers of the show know when to come and film you? Do you do special filming for the show? Like, a staged fight afterwards? Do the bad guys get paid?"

When SpongeBob finally paused for breath, a smile tugged at Barnacle Boy's lips. Or maybe it was a grimace. As Barnacle Boy continued to survey him in silence, SpongeBob began to wonder if he'd made a mistake. The longer he wondered, the surer he became that it had been incredibly insensitive to ask such trivial fan questions in light of yesterday's events. His stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch and his cheeks began to burn with shame as he awkwardly shifted back to his pre-question position, legs dangling and hands folded politely in his lap once more. "Sorry."

"You know," said Barnacle Boy, "You're the first person who hasn't asked about Saturday night."

SpongeBob cringed, cursing himself for being so tactless. "Should I have? I'm really sorry. I just wasn't thinking, I guess."

"No, it's OK," said Barnacle Boy, much to SpongeBob's surprise, "It actually makes a nice change."

SpongeBob wasn't really sure how to respond to this. "So you … don't want to talk about Mermaid Man?"

"We can if you want," explained Barnacle Boy, "I just meant that a question about cameramen makes a nice change from … you know."

At first SpongeBob wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to know, but then he thought back to his first painfully long night of mourning Mermaid Man and the relief that his regular workday routine of flipping patties had brought. He figured that answering fan questions must be the elderly superhero equivalent, and being the question asker was a service that he was more than happy to provide.

"So," said SpongeBob, now grinning toothily as he re-assumed his usual role as loyal fan, "What _is_ the deal with the cameramen?"

The appreciative smile he received in return, weary as it was, made his heart soar.

"Sorry, kid," teased Barnacle Boy, "I can't tell you."

SpongeBob drooped, unable to hide his disappointment. "Why not?"

"Because I don't know myself. I've been doing this gig for so many years now, it's hard to keep track of details like that, you know?" Barnacle Boy got to his feet, stretching and stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

SpongeBob knew that this couldn't be the truth (Barnacle Boy, old as he was, was far from senile) but he wasn't really upset. It was all part of the fun; the mystery of such unanswered questions kept the hook in his mouth and gave him something to speculate about with Patrick during their regular Mermaid Man marathons. These speculation sessions were always rather one-sided, with Patrick's contributions consisting mainly of vacant grunts as his attention was on the show itself rather than SpongeBob's theories, but SpongeBob enjoyed them all the same. Almost as much as he enjoyed acting out the episodes afterwards.

"Oh! That reminds me. Do you still want to see my Sinister Slug impression? It's uncanny." SpongeBob hopped down from the couch excitedly and began a series of unnecessary but impressive-looking stretches in preparation for his big moment. "I did a dry run at the Barg'N-Mart on Friday and everybody freaked out! I don't know why they called a paramedic, though. Barnacle Boy?"

Suddenly realizing that he was alone, SpongeBob stopped stretching and set off in pursuit of Barnacle Boy, who was waiting by the rec room door. Barnacle Boy held the door open, beckoned SpongeBob to follow him and they both passed through into the main hallway, where Barnacle Boy took a right turn along the corridor that led to the residents' bedrooms.

"Why are we going down here?" asked SpongeBob, slightly breathless as he broke into a trot in order to keep up with Barnacle Boy's long strides.

"I have something for you."

Some of the residents' doors were propped open and SpongeBob waved to them as he passed, each time receiving an nod or smile in return. He would very much have liked to stop and chat but Barnacle Boy seemed to be in a hurry.

Upon reaching the right bedroom, Barnacle Boy led SpongeBob inside and closed the door behind them. For one fleeting moment SpongeBob expected to look at Mermaid Man's bed and see him napping there. There wasn't really anything different or foreboding about the room. In fact, it looked much the same as it had done the last time SpongeBob had been here. Possessions still lay in their usual places; spare slippers, tasteless knick-knacks and mementos from the "glory days" (whenever they were; nobody was able to specify an exact date when queried, and SpongeBob had queried them many times).

The only thing missing was Mermaid Man.

A fresh surge of grief gripped SpongeBob like a vice. He willed himself to stay in control this time, though the effort made his head swim.

Barnacle Boy was rummaging through a small cardboard box that was sat at the end of Mermaid Man's bed. He straightened up, a white envelope in his hand, and passed it to SpongeBob.

"He left you a letter."

SpongeBob flipped it over and read the name written on the front: _SpongeBoy_.

Close enough.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hey, little hero!_

_If you're reading this, that means one of several things has happened. (Please delete as appropriate.)_

_1. You were overcome with a sudden fit of evil, ransacked my possessions, came across this letter and decided to read it without permission. While your curiosity is understandable, as a long time, fully-paid member of the Mermaid Man & Barnacle Boy Fan Club, you know the rules: evil will not be tolerated. You're still welcome to visit but I'm going to have to ask you to return the official Mermaid Man & Barnacle Boy Fan Club fridge magnet and pencil topper. Subscription is non-refundable._

_2. Since you're usually a good lad, it's more likely that I have been permanently defeated by evil, in which case you should panic immediately._

_3. The third and most likely scenario is that old age finally caught up with me. It is with this scenario in mind that I leave you this letter, as I have a few favors to ask of you._

_Firstly, assuming that Barnacle Boy hasn't yet suffered the same fate, please make sure that he keeps eating his vegetables. A growing boy needs all the vitamins he can get._

_Secondly, and most importantly, you should remember that there was no evil at work here; only the inevitable hand of fate. Contrary to popular belief, most superheroes are mortal. Especially old superheroes. The bra doesn't protect me from death. In fact, between you and me, I really only wear it because it looks good._

_Though my time unfortunately had to come to an end, I hope that you are not discouraged and will continue to do for others what you did for me._

_Stay safe, stay happy, and stay on the path of evil. Or should that be away from the path of evil? I forget. But you're a smart kid, I'm sure you'll work it out._

_Yours,_

_Mermaid Man_


	7. Chapter 7

"... Yours, Mermaid Man," finished SpongeBob. Before tackling the letter he had slid to a sitting position on the floor, back propped against Barnacle Boy's bed and spindly legs splayed out in front of him. Barnacle Boy, in an act of camaraderie, had followed suit and seated himself next to the youngster, though the journey down had been nerve-racking and he wasn't entirely confident that he would be able to make it back up again without dislocating a joint or two.

It was late afternoon now and strangely calm. A gentle current carried a steady stream of bubbles past the porthole window and Barnacle Boy watched this for a while in order to give SpongeBob some time to re-read the litter silently, if he wished to do so. When he glanced back to his right, he noticed that SpongeBob's attention, too, had been captured by the bubble stream.

"He was a lot more lucid in writing, huh?" said Barnacle Boy, in an attempt to keep things moving. He knew from experience how easy it would be to fall into a long, unproductive rumination session. In fact, he'd likely still be in the midst of one had SpongeBob not arrived to break the monotony that morning. Such was life in a retirement home … even when Mermaid Man had been alive.

SpongeBob shrugged. "I always thought he was pretty lucid in real life, too. It was just a different kind of lucid. Well, maybe not lucid in the conventional sense. But you could still understand him if you put a little effort into it, right?"

"Right," agreed Barnacle Boy. He couldn't help but smile. As much of a pain in the hindquarters the kid usually was, with his obnoxious over-enthusiasm and disrespect for personal space, he could also be surprisingly and unintentionally profound.

"I still haven't told Patrick," blurted SpongeBob suddenly, springing to his feet and beginning to pace back and forth distractedly, clutching the letter with a pained expression on his face.

"Your pink friend?"

"Yeah." Upon noticing that Barnacle Boy was still stranded on the floor, SpongeBob came to a halt in front of him and offered his hand. Barnacle Boy took it gratefully and heaved himself upright. He was careful not to snap the sponge's rail-thin arm clean in two; it wouldn't be the first time.

"Well, it's been all over the news," said Barnacle Boy. He brushed himself down and sat on the bed with a sigh of relief. "He probably already knows. He watches a lot of television, right?" Barnacle Boy didn't know this for sure but felt that it was a fair assumption to make based on the sea star's less than athletic physique.

"He does. But he mainly just watches the Eating Channel."

More anxious pacing ensued. Barnacle Boy began began to wonder if he'd made the right decision by giving the kid his letter so soon and re-opening what was still a very sore wound. The grief was still raw for him, too, but he was perhaps better equipped to deal with it given his years of life experience and the hours that he and Mermaid Man had spent planning for this inevitable situation. In theory. In reality he was struggling much more than he'd care to let on. As a superhero, he was supposed to be a symbol of strength and solidarity.

An ominous smashing sound broke his train of thought and he leapt to his feet in surprise, suddenly agile and ready to fight. "What-? Who-?"

"Oh gosh!" SpongeBob dropped to his knees and began to carefully scoop something off the floor. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to look at it and I -"

Barnacle Boy gave a cry of shock as he noticed what it was that SpongeBob had broken: the very first photograph of Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy as a newly formed crime-fighting duo, which had been displayed in pride of place on top of the dresser. He pushed the sponge aside and took the pieces into his own hands, heart thumping as he inspected the damage.

SpongeBob continued to apologize tearfully. "I didn't mean to … I can fix it, I promise."

Barnacle Boy was hugely relieved to find that the photograph itself remained perfectly intact. The shattered glass of the frame was beyond repair, but frames were replaceable. He tipped the shards into the wastebasket.

Sinking back onto the bed with the photograph cradled in his lap, he felt his anger ebb away as he examined the picture closely for the first time in years. He had been in great shape back then; lean, youthful, and much better looking in a skimpy costume. But the biggest difference between the young man in the picture and his present day self was the positive attitude, clear even within this still image. His posture radiated confidence and dependability; his wide grin sparkled with enthusiasm. And how he had looked up to Mermaid Man …

He had been far from perfect, but Mermaid Man had nurtured his passion for doing good and righting wrongs. Barnacle Boy remembered those early days fondly and wondered when exactly he had become such an irritable, cynical stick-in-the-sand.

"Barnacle Boy?"

The piping voice came from so closely behind Barnacle Boy that he could feel the breath on his neck and, for the second time in only a few minutes, he yelped and almost jumped out of his skin.

"How many times have I told you not to creep up on me like that?" he snapped, rubbing his neck and turning to fix SpongeBob, who was stood on the bed only inches behind him, with a glare.

"Sorry," said SpongeBob. He seated himself next to Barnacle Boy and glanced guiltily at the broken picture frame. "I just wanted to know if you were OK. I'll bring a new frame next time I come or – or I could run down to the store right now if you -"

"It doesn't matter," reassured Barnacle Boy, "There's probably a whole case of them in the storage room. Old people love looking at photographs, you know? It helps us to remember how much better things were back then and how terrible being old is in comparison."

The hyperbole was lost on SpongeBob, who nodded understandingly.

"Um, Barnacle Boy?"

"What is it now, kid?" mumbled Barnacle Boy. It came out harsher than he had intended, but he was starting to wish SpongeBob would just leave him in peace. Although well-intentioned, he was exhausting enough to deal with on a good day, never mind what was possibly the worst day of his life. Add in the destruction of personal property and anybody's patience would wear thin.

"What are you going to do now?" asked SpongeBob. "Mermaid Man was your best friend in the whole world. You did everything together. You were a team."

"Yes … we were," said Barnacle Boy. He pondered for a moment, analysing a sudden idea, then decided to roll with it and crept over to the door to check the peephole for potential eavesdroppers. Once he sure that they were alone, he pulled a surprised SpongeBob close and dropped his voice to a conspirational whisper. "Listen closely. Meet me in the Mermalair, 8pm tonight. Tell no-one. Got it?"

SpongeBob nodded eagerly.


End file.
